[b]Brooklyn, New York 
10:01 AM[/b]

Cars were useless in New York, so Robert had made sure to head out of his apartment an hour before his appointment. It took forty-five minutes for him to ride the subway and walk a few blocks down to the office of the Psychologist he was recommended by Jay: Dr. Dennis Shavleson. A PhD from Columbia, very respectable, and he came with numerous recommendations. Despite his background in medicine, Robert did not have much background in psychology, except for an introductory course he took when he was studying for his Bachelor's. The FBI knew their stuff, so he trusted that Dr. Shavleson was fully qualified. When he had stepped before the door, he had to pause. To shut his eyes, breathe, and absorb exactly what he was doing. He never thought he would need to go see a Psychologist. The idea was rational, but jarring. He didn't even know how one dressed to such an appointment, so he decided it was best to stick with what he knew. Formalities and good first impressions. He wore a light blue dress shirt without a tie, and the top button undone. He wore a pair of navy khakis, and black polished leather shoes. His watch was clasped to his wrist, and the time was about fourteen minutes before his appointment. His fingernails were well manicured and hands clean. And so, after examining himself and taking a moment, he turned the doorknob and made his way into the office building, checking to make sure he was headed up the stairs to the right place. After finding the correct office, he entered, and smoothed his hair out. He cleared his throat and nodded to the receptionist. "Hello. My name is Doctor Robert Bishop, I have an appointment in fourteen minutes with Doctor Shavleson. Do I need to fill anything out or confirm my health insurance?"

Marcy was ultimately bored the moment before Robert entered. She had just finished her third solitaire game of the day and was already planning for the next, but first, a text break.

She began talking to some teenage boy, or another, about some possible date, or another. She was just a teen herself, plucked from the impossibly youthful and optimistic halls of Stuyvesant. She was one of the many interns Dennis employed--for both professional positions and otherwise. Phillip was the other kind, a sick experiment in contagious psychopathy. Of course, no one, not even Phillip, could know all of this.

When Robert walked in the teenage receptionist quickly discarded of her phone and folded her hands, smiled warmly. She nodded along with Robert's words, "Yes, of course, Dr. Bishop, the doctor is expecting you." She grabbed a clipboard from the little table near her desk, and handed it to Robert. "Fill this out, and Dr. Shavleson should be with you by the time you're done."

There were all sorts of simple medical questions along with fields for insurance information. But there were different questions as well, most relating to personal history and psychological experiences. Marcy politely pointed to the row of chairs behind of Robert, set right in front of the heavy oak door to Dennis' office proper.

"Thank you." Robert carefully took the clipboard and walked towards the seats in front of the Psychologist's office to begin answering questions. The insurance information was simple, and he quickly wrote the necessary numbers down before working on his medical questions. [I]"Medication allergies... None. Family medical history... Father died of heart attack. Personal medical history... Severe trauma sustained on ribs and cranium. Has resulted in semi-frequent migraines and a coma that lasted for one year. Here's the nasty stuff,"[/I] he shook his head before lifting his eyes to the closed window of the office. Nothing to see, so he glanced back to the paper. [I]"Psychological history. None. I don't know of anyone in my family with mental issues. What troubles me? Dreams... I suppose they are dreams. Horribly real dreams."[/I] "Reoccurring traumatic 'dreams'" was what he wrote for that section. [I]"Frequency? Every night for the past week. Am I hallucinating? I don't think so. Hearing strange noises? I don't think so. I don't think I've been suffering panic attacks. This should suffice."[/I] With that, he signed and dated his medical history and rested the clipboard on his lap with the pen attached.

The door opened as quickly as Robert was finished. Phillip, hanging head, sullen eyes, shuffled through the reception area. He avoided eye contact with anyone in the room, most importantly Marcy. But he bid her farewell, nonetheless. "Bye."

One might have never known that they attended school together. "See you on Monday..." He was gone before she could finish her sentence.

Only moments later the door creaked open once more. Dennis emerged, his light clothing soaking in the sun from his left side which bathed the rest of the office as well. His ivory hair was smoothed back in waves. He smiled briefly when he recognized Robert.

It was dark the last time the two had met, just at the end of a particularly deserving transformation. He didn't expect him to look so good, so unchanged. It was almost infuriating, but Dennis remained composed, pulled on the reigns of his mania. Instead, he extended his well manicured hands, spoke in an even baritone. "Dr.Bishop, please come in." He stepped aside to let his victim, then and now, enter his office.

"Dr. Shavleson. I believe this is yours," Robert has nodded his head while walking to the man who had nearly beat him to death and caused the migraines that he suffered from. Of course, he did not recognize Dennis, and believed this to be the first time they had ever encountered each other. So while he felt nervous, he felt no more than that while walking into the deceptive Lion's Den. "I've heard excellent things about you. They said you were experienced in this sort of... Trauma." He finished his sentence while looking around, admiring his office, its furnishings, and its view. The view had caused him to smile briefly, fleetingly, as he stared out at the sun and the life outside it.

Dennis gently grabbed the clipboard as it was handed to him. He indulged in the moment as Robert passed, a covert sniff-something he'd been doing all his life. Dennis closed the door, "well, the sort of procedures used to treat such trauma are quite unique. I just so happen to have dedicated my entire PhD to it. Cognition recovery is a burgeoning field." The good doctor, clad in fine Italian, directed Robert to the balcony. Dennis quickly snatched the file he'd received that morning from Roberts mandatory stint with an FBI social worker, along with his journal from his desk atop the dias. "More vibrant and youthful minds than my own will do far more for it than I have."

Dennis joined Robert shortly after he sat and allowed a few moments of silence. He crossed his legs and set the file on the table between them. He opened his journal and drew his pen from his shirt pocket.

"So, I'd like to begin by asking you how you think I can help you. What are you expecting out of this?" Dennis finally got a good look. There were slight scars, most of them had healed rather well. It was strange really, he'd hit him so hard. Dennis smiled, he could practically feel the prybar in his hands. He could still hear the crunching skull, the stifled, retarded whimpers. What a primal party that was!

"I may be interested in reading through it. I do not have the proper background, but it does sound like an interesting read and subject." He had followed Dennis to his desk and sat down, his fingers lacing together and eyes staring at the file on his desk. "I know what happened to me. I read my chart after I had awoken from my coma, so the severity of the injuries and the manner in which they were caused in my dream were not a surprise. I don't know who did this or why, and quite frankly, I don't care at this point, as horrible as that may seem. I don't know why I am suddenly remembering this, or dreaming about it. One of those things will be easier to figure out than the other, so my chief concern would be to stop these nightmares. Or at least get them to a point where I can sleep restfully at night. After that, I am not sure. I suppose it will depend upon how this progresses."

Dennis was a consummate professional, his pleasures were kept to a mild purr somewhere in the darkness of that foul cavern, his mind. Nightmares? How accurate were they? Did he know the exact events? All of this was too inquisitive, of course, Dennis knew that. Normal people were so paranoid. “You say you have nightmares. Could you describe them?”

That was the voice, even and sure. It was a motion for intent, oldest trick in the book, but Dennis had discovered ages ago that, a patient, once confronted with the play, is presumed to follow it. It was a bit like prestidigitation, what he’d done; or, perhaps prestidigitation was a great deal like psychology. Probably the latter.

"I was going to a colleague's home for our weekly case study. Dr. Peter Larson--you may have heard of him. One of us would host, the other brought food, and it was his turn to host so I had brought food. I walked in and saw my friend on the ground. Someone was standing over him, but that Shadow was distorted." Robert's face frowned then, as he remembered. His voice was even and neutral, as he rattled off details of his own near death. "The Shadow ran off. I ran into the room to check for Dr. Larson's vitals. There was too much blood loss, but I had to be certain. That's when the Shadow struck--on my head first. My head was thumping into the ground, so I know that's where it was hitting. But that was my only indication, because I couldn't feel the pain. I think I saw a grey bar as his weapon. Everything was beginning to fade to darknes as I slipped into unconsciousness, where it consumed me. The course of events never changes; it's just a repeat of the same thing over and over again. It seems... Overwhelming." His hand had raised to the side of his head where scars peaked out from under his hairline to scratch at them with a fingertip, as if the memory had stirred them in some way. If his head was shaved, angrier, larger ones would be visible. The vain side of Robert was glad he still had a full head of hair to hide them. Baldness was not a trait in his family, and he was grateful to his genetics for it. They itched on occasion, when the weather changed, but that was mild in comparison to the migraines, which left him clutching his head in agony. The worst injury he had taken away from that confrontation.

Dennis remembered his actions with a cool melancholy. Robert referred to him as a shadow, Dennis wondered if it was because of the fuzziness of his memory or a credit to his own stealth skills. He’d had years of experience hiding his noises and motions from people, he’d read extensively on the techniques. It’s always hard to be sure whether those lessons were soaking in until you tried to use them. He knew that his abilities with a crowbar were up to snuff, Robert’s testimony said nothing of his other skills, however. It’s hard to derive objectionality from confused, half-forgotten accounts. The most fabulous thing about Dr. Larson’s apartment, and it was fabulous in many ways, was the sliding doors which separated the different parts. It was easy to get behind Robert and subdue him. When he was on the floor, reeling from the initial strike, Dennis was able to grab the crowbar, which he turned from crude metal pole to sophisticated instrument of death. Except, not really. This moment, as it stood, was an afront to that. Damn him! How dare he deny his transformation? Didn’t he know it was all a part of the plan? But, that’s why Dennis had worked so hard to get him here, after all. This was the beginning of the end for Robert Bishop, if Dennis had anything to say about it.

He pictured Robert naked, tied to the pyre on the shores of his consciousness, he was next.

Dennis was able to settle himself by the time it was his turn to speak. He didn’t miss a beat. “And, how do you feel when you awaken from these nightmares? Are you upset, scared, nervous?” He wrote a note down to remind himself of a question for later, ‘Real?’.

"I suppose upset. I was dying. My friend was dead. All these years of my life were about to come crashing down at the hands of the Shadow. It was so sudden. I couldn't even see properly." His eyes blinked at that mention. "He was beating over my parietal lobe. I was going to die at the hands of some stranger I had never known. I had hoped for better." He sighed at that and rubbed behind his neck. "But that is a luxury beyond my control. And I do not wish to take my own life." That question was always annoying. It reminded Robert of the psychologists in the media. Emotion was an experience caused by the release of certain chemicals. Every brain is slightly different, so every experience is different. It is only a general consensus that out a name to emotions of shared symptoms. But it was not his place to dispute, Dr. Shavleson was the expert, not him. "I can give you my medical charts if you do not already have them from that incident. I don't know how much the FBI handed you."

Dennis held back a chuckle. Robert was defensive, which might have served him better 8 months ago. He held back any reservations he might have made about Robert’s response. Mostly because he was spouting off one thing after the other, this man had quite a bit on his mind. “Not necessary,” Dennis responded respectfully, “I have all the information I need here.” he pat the file in front of him on the table. “Robert, would you mind if we went back to the nightmares? What can you tell about… this Shadow?” He feigned uncertainty. “For instance, why is he there?”

Robert leaned back in his chair at the mention of the Shadow to pop his spine back into a comfortable alignment. "I named him that partly because of his obscured identity, and partly in homage to Jung's Shadow. It seemed fitting. I never assigned a gender to him, but make seems appropriate. They told me he was there in a robbery attempt. But I don't know why he was there, nor did I guess. He was standing over Dr. Larson, perhaps in shock? Surprise because of my arrival? Triumph? It changed little, in my view, because that was the result. Perhaps he was a robber. Perhaps he wasn't. That is for them to decide." He never believed it was his job to interpret facts. Sure, some facts lead to certain conclusions, like the difference between a spur of the moment and an angry homicide. But that was his deduction, his reasoning. He could not tell a robber from a murderer without an M.O. But he could judge a death as a homicide. Justice was relative to his employer. Robert viewed himself as just a neutral third party.

Dennis nodded, he needed to focus a little to formulate a review of this latest information. It seemed as if the dream was steeped very much in reality, informed and driven by real events, some remembered and some by second hand evaluations. If it was created by some sort of psychosis, and perhaps as a symptom of an overarching disorder, he might have conceived a self-made reasoning. But there was none of that, this man remained very sane. “Can we discuss the circumstances under which you have the nightmares, in your environment? Do you have trouble sleeping beforehand? Do these migraines ever signal the arrival of an episode?” He made sure to speak in measured tones, not bunching up his questions but still keeping the flow of conversation.

Dennis wondered briefly if the FBI knew something they weren’t sharing with neither Robert nor himself. If so, this could all be a trap. But, there was no time for paranoia like that, it was senseless at this stage. But Dennis couldn’t help returning to that thought throughout the conversation, and it would likely persist throughout the rest of the day.

"I don't have trouble falling asleep, beyond the fear that it will happen again. I have had migraines occur afterwards, on a semi frequent basis. Of course I have also had them occur in the morning and the middle of the day. I don't think the frequency at which they occur has changed, but the timing very well may have." Robert rubbed his forehead gently as he spoke. "The hospital had warned me I may suffer from them before I was discharged."

Dennis and Robert spoke about the nightmares briefly thereafter, splintering eventually into casual chit-chat. Dennis learned about where Robert went to school, his career in Texas, and then eventually all about his stint in the FBI. Dennis checked his watch halfway through an interesting conversation about J.L to notice that it was a quarter past eleven, and their time was up.

“Well,” Dennis started, grasping the arms of his chair, “I believe that’s all the time we have for today. He stood, “It was a pleasure meeting you Dr. Bishop, I look forward to working with you further.” Dennis extended his hand to the unsuspecting doctor, his heart was beating at break-neck pace. He felt like he might explode of pure exhileration. There was so much more left to see, so much more left to feel.

It was an innocuous gesture, a handshake. An agreement, greeting, farewell, and sign of respect between two parties. Of course, the symbolism was far more sinister, and it was one Robert took no notice of, for no fault of his own. There was no way for him to know this was his assailant. This was simply the Psychologist, the one who was slightly questionable in efficiency and methodology, but otherwise trusted. After all, Robert kept repeating to himself, this was not his field. He needed to sit back, try to relax, and let the professional do his duty. Lying was out of the question, and so too was holding back, no matter how embarrassing or intimate the question.

A physician. A man for healing and the people. Sworn to Apollo, the God of the sun and medicine.

"It was a pleasure meeting you Dr. Shavleson. I look forward to continuing our work." With that cordial farewell and deceptive handshake, Robert turned and left the office, shutting the door behind him so he could deal with his payment and walk back to his home in the sun and shade of New York concrete.

---

[b]Quantico, Virginia 
11:28 AM[/b]

Josh leaned against one of the many black SUV’s parked in the hanger, his phone clasped in his hand. He was trying to think of a the perfect words for an email. He was feeling the pressure with this relationship and he felt an impending end if he didn’t call an audible. That’s when Mark’s car came down the tarmac, parked somewhere behind the hanger in the empty lot. As Mark walked up Josh headed toward the plane. Everyone was already on-board, Josh was visibly irritated, though the origin was indistinguishable. Especially since there was so much riding on his shoulders at this point. When that wide-eyed, perceptive kid came walking into Quantico, hoping against hope that he’d just get that damn gun, he had no idea that all this stress would come with the shiny badge. No training could prepare him to run a whole squad on a manhunt for an experienced serial killer. He channeled J.L, “Time to roll,” he said simply, a speck of consciousness hidden in the satire.

As the couple got on the jet the pilot was strapping himself into the cockpit. Josh tapped on the door frame to get his attention, gave a thumbs up, the pilot returned the affirmation. Thomas Wakefield stood as Mark entered the airplane, extended his hand for a handshake, smiling. He was clearly excited. “A pleasure to meet you Mr. Vern. Thomas Wakefield, BSU profiler. When I heard you left the classroom, well honestly, I was a little surprised.” He spoke quietly, “Perhaps we could compare notes, on our cases.”

Josh walked pass and sat in one of the two alcoves on the jet, he face a couple of agents wearing blue FBI jackets. “I already told you Mr. Wakefield, it’s confidential.”

Gerald Yun piped up from the bathroom, “Jesus, are you still asking about that?”

Thomas whipped around, a little uncredulous. “I don’t understand what’s the issue with throwing me a bone. I’m incredibly curious. Besides, it’s not like we all haven’t heard the rumors. Ritualistic post-mortem mutilation, verging on artistic. Harvesting of body parts. Stop me if I say anything off base.”

Gerald came from the bathroom, fixing his belt, as Thomas sat down in the opposing alcove. Gerald sat with his new partner, “You’d think you’d be satisfied with our case alone. Isn’t that brutal enough for you?”

“It’s not about the brutality, it’s about knowing. I just want to know.” Thomas said, seeming to give up the fight, if at least for now.